


Not so fine

by StarliteNights



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Abuse, Alcohol, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - No Zombies, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Bromance, Childhood Trauma, Daryl and Merle aren’t related, First Meetings, Found Family, Getting Together, Hospitals, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Making Out, Mental Health Issues, Panic Attacks, Recovery, Self Confidence Issues, Self-Destruction, Self-Harm, Smoking, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Soulmates, Therapy, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-03
Updated: 2021-03-08
Packaged: 2021-03-16 12:29:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,715
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29824956
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StarliteNights/pseuds/StarliteNights
Summary: Daryl was born with his mark and it doesn’t take a genius to figure out what that means.
Relationships: Daryl Dixon & Rick Grimes, Daryl Dixon/Merle Dixon
Comments: 4
Kudos: 21





	1. Part 1

**Author's Note:**

> I’ve been slowly writing this over the course of the last two years and I think it’s finally done. 
> 
> I haven’t posted in a long time but well, my mental is a trash can that’s on fire inside of another trash can that’s also on fire *insert shrug emoji here*
> 
> Point being I’ll definitely post all the chapters to this (since it’s 100% done) but in regards to any of my other stories, I’ll try to get to them if and when I can.

Wha’s a fine thing like you doin’ in a place like this?

The messy scrawl of text climbing up his forearm mocks him almost every morning. It doesn’t matter what position he falls asleep in, doesn’t matter that he crams his arm up under his pillow or under his head, every morning it’s the first thing he sees. Like his own body gets a sick sense of joy out of tormenting him. He opens his eyes and there it is, staring up at him, his arm laid out beside him in the empty space of his bed. 

It’s shitty writing, not even in cursive. Not the pretty looped letters some people have, no little hearts for the i’s. At least if it was cursive he wouldn’t be able to really read the damn thing. His words look like a six year old wrote it with a crayon. Like they wrote it too fast, didn’t care how it looked, or simply couldn’t write at all. He can’t write for shit either, but fuck.

He’d been born with them. Knew what it meant pretty early in life too. People talked, they always talked. He was the only one with a mark in his class growing up for the longest time.

See, most people get theirs between the age of twelve and fourteen. When one side of the pair reaches puberty, both gain their marks. With the average age gap being two to three years, most people get theirs as early as age nine. But he’s had his since the day he was born. Which means his ‘soulmate’ is older than him. 

Way older. 

He’d often wonder over the years what his soulmate had thought, or if they had noticed at all. 

They wouldn’t get their soulmark until he was at least born, but if they were just hitting puberty anyways, chances are they wouldn’t suspect a thing. They’d go on their merry way thinking their soulmate had just gotten their own as well. But if they had been even older, sixteen? Seventeen? Already in their twenties? They’d be wondering. They’d figure out what was going on long before he even knew how to talk, let alone walk. 

Did they think about him? Did they wonder what grade he was in? What classes he liked the most? What was his favourite food? If he was a boy or a girl? What colour his eyes were? 

Meanwhile, he was just making his way into the world without a damn clue.

——

It wasn’t until the end of grade four that another student named Sarah trotted into school on a Tuesday with her head held high. ‘You have the prettiest eyes.’ Right there on the outside of her lower leg, her flowery dress brushing her knees. 

The teacher had brought her to the front of the class that morning to show it off. Had smiled and said how lovely it was. Explained how everyone would be starting to get their own now that they were older. How it would help them find their perfect someone. 

Nobody had ever said that about his. He heard plenty of other things though.

——

“Such a large age gap, and you don’t know for sure just how much it is either.”

“Poor boy, what if he never even gets the chance to find them?”

“Unnatural, is what it is.”

“I’m tellin’ you, there’s somethin’ wrong with them Dixon’s.”

——

His Ma had tried to hide them when he was a baby, had tried to protect him. It didn’t matter, Pa saw it eventually anyways. 

Him and Ma would scream at each other sometimes, always angry. Then Pa lost his job and everything fell apart, like he stopped caring at all. Soon it wasn’t just yelling, it was throwing things, drinking, hitting her. Hitting him. She tried to stop Pa the first few times. She’d hide him in the closet and tell him to stay real quiet. 

Then she stopped caring too.

——

After the house burned and took her with it, things got worse. 

He never figured out if Pa had a mark of his own. He knows Ma did at some point before him. Knew that she was one of the faded. One of the ones that had lost their mark and understood that it meant her person was dead. She used to tell him how marks were special, ‘two souls, meant to be one’. He had asked about hers, if she ever met them. 

He never did get an answer.

—— 

It’s in high school that he finds out he’s not the only one born with a mark. 

It’s in biology class, a primarily science based class with sex-ed tacked on during the reproductive lessons. Mrs. Miller shows them a new research article all about soulmarks. It’s got a bunch of statistics about how far apart geographically soulmates tend to be, what race they are, how old and what the age gap between them is. 

“In this latest study they’ve uncovered some interesting things. For example, almost forty percent of soulmates find each other within the first twenty years of getting their mark. Twenty-seven percent find each other beyond the initial twenty years. The remaining thirty-three percent consists of people who unfortunately never meet, one half of the pair passes away, or they don’t have a mark at all.” She sits behind her desk, reading glasses poised on the edge of her nose and flips the page of her copy. 

There’s a flurry of noise as the class copies. 

“Now here’s something truly exciting! Research shows that an estimated eight percent of soulmates have an age difference of ten or more years! This is quite intriguing, can you imagine? Some are even born with their soulmarks!”

He doesn’t listen much after that, not really. 

He’s not alone. 

That’s all that matters to him.

——

One day, it was like Pa looked at his mark and decided he’d never get to hear the words spoken out loud. That he wanted to ruin him, make it so nobody would ever look twice at him. 

Maybe he envied him for having a mark at all. 

If his Pa ever had one to begin with, he sure as hell didn’t deserve it. 

There ain’t a damn thing about him that’s ‘fine’ now. He’s a mess, both inside and out. 

Cigarette burns, scars upon scars all across his body and broken bones that never truly healed right. He didn’t have much going for him to begin with, at least he hadn’t thought so. Face too feminine, his eyes somehow a little off. His shoulders are too broad when his hips are so narrow. Just a mix-match person that didn’t line up right.

——

The night his Pa tore his back to ribbons, he took a blade to his arm and tried to slash out the damn word. 

He panicked after. Anxiety burning across his chest and climbing up his throat. He tried to wrap it, tried to fix what he’d done. Then he watched the blood seep through the cloth tied around his arm and knew he had ruined it. Shame and regret had washed over him and the rest of the night was spent curled on the floor of their bathroom by the tub as he cried. 

It healed, like most wounds do. A thin but jagged scar of white cutting up at a slant through his words, leaving the ‘fine’ illegible and the ‘thing’ next to it warped.

——

Pa’s dead and buried. 

He didn’t stick around his little home town long after that and he hasn’t looked back. 

He’s settled now, more or less. Years of hard work and a fair bit of luck have paid off. He’s got his own little cabin-like house and a job as a mechanic at Dale’s. Owns a truck and a scrap heap of a bike in the shed that he’s putting together one piece at a time. He has people he cares about and that care about him in return. 

If he wears long sleeve shirts more often than not, regardless of the weather, that’s his business and his alone. If he runs his thumb over the scar on his arm the most and cries himself to sleep some nights, well, it’s not like anybody will ever know.

——

He’s turning thirty and when did he get so old? He’s still technically in his prime but he sure as hell doesn’t feel like it.

Dale brings a little cake into the shop at lunch, because of course he does. Fucker. He grunts out a half hearted thanks, and suffers through the birthday wishes from the other guys. 

Turns out Rick and Carol have been conspiring again too.

When Rick invites him over for supper he’s expecting food and little Judith climbing all over him. He’s not expecting a fucking birthday party like he’s eight years old. Rick, Carol, the whole damn Greene family. A bunch of other people he knows, it’s a damn crowd all piled into Grimes backyard for a BBQ. And cake because one wasn’t enough today apparently.

He doesn’t need all this, doesn’t really want it either but Carols all smiles and Rick looks pleased as a peach and who’s he to ruin the fun? So he shuts up, eats his food, and ignores the burning feeling behind his eyes for as long as he can. 

If he sneaks Judith and Sophia an extra serving of double chocolate cake, too bad. It’s his birthday after all, what’s Rick and Carol gonna do?

——

By the time everyone starts heading home and he helps Rick clean up, cause no, he’s not leaving him with the whole mess, it’s well into the evening. He should be heading home himself. Watch a few hours of crap TV and grab a shower. Call it a night. 

But when he gets to the turn off for his road he keeps driving. Heads out towards the highway and pulls into Smoke’s. It’s a biker bar, a little run down but not too bad. Most of the time when he heads out for a drink it’s with Rick and they just drop into a bar in town. Sometimes, when he’s alone or it’s getting too late to be calling up a guy with two kids, he comes here.

There’s a parking lot on one side and more bikes parked in front. He swings in and parks the truck next to a Harley and hops out. Two burly looking guys and a gal all in leather vests are smoking out on the porch as he heads for the main door. 

It’s a good thing he hadn’t known about the party at Ricks or Carol probably would have roped him into wearing something nicer. Granted, he’s still a little more clean cut then he’d normally be coming to a place like this. 

He’d dropped into his place after work and gotten changed. Not cause Grimes is special or anything, he just likes being a little cleaner around the kid. It’s nothing fancy, just a pair of worn down, dark wash jeans and a long sleeve black button up. 

Still makes him feel a little out of place walking in the door.

It’s busier than normal which is what reminds him that it’s a damn Friday night. Everybody’s looking forward to the weekend apparently. It’s loud, both with music and laughter and some kind of card game going on near the back. There’s people in jackets and vest, some girls with too much makeup and some with none at all. Some people are obviously paired off. Couples with arms over shoulders or one of them sitting in the other's lap. Some of them even prance around with their soulmates words proudly on display.

He makes his way up to the bar and slides onto a vacant seat. He’s off tomorrow and he doesn’t plan on leaving anytime soon. He’s not an alcoholic but something about today has left him feeling hollowed out and sucked dry. 

One drink quickly becomes two and he’s already starting on a third when a commotion near the back wall grabs his attention. Somebody’s lost the game and they don’t sound all too happy about it.

“Son of a dick!” There’s more laughter and a fair bit of cussing before a tall ginger man is throwing down his cards and getting up. “If this ain’t some grade A bullshit I don’t know what is.”

“Aww come on now carrot top, don’t be like tha’.” 

There’s another man, shorter then the first and stocky with greying hair that’s been shaved down. He’s wearing blue jeans and a wife beater topped with a dark leather vest. 

“Come on now, ya’ know the rules, loser buys the next round.” His voice is somehow higher but rough, a little throaty like maybe he’s a smoker. He’s basically corralling the other guy up to the bar at this point, not that he’s putting up much of a fight.

“I am well aware.” The gingers stepped up and folded his arms on the bar top, looking pissed and weirdly amused at the same time. “It does not, however, mean that I need to be pleased as a calf suckling on a tit about it.”

The other man sidles up to the bar himself and pulls out the stool beside his standing friend with a bark of laughter.

The bar is decently busy and it’s fairly easy to tone them out as they wait to place an order. Even with the seat next to him previously empty, now filled. 

It’s not long before he’s tossing back the last of his drink and fishing around for his pack of cigarettes. While he’s pretty sure smoking inside isn’t an issue here, it’s warm and he wouldn’t mind ducking out for a minute. 

There’s some chick nursing a beer, sat up on the railing and leaned back against the support. She’s got one leg bent up with her arm resting on it and the other hanging down, the tip of her boot just barely touching the ground. She gives him a little nod as he settles back against the wall across from her, golden hoops in her ears swinging with the motion. 

He digs out his lighter and sticks a cigarette between his teeth. Pulls in a breath until the tip flares red and the sweet thick smoke fills his lungs. Then huffs out his nose and takes another. 

There’s nothing pleasant about smoking. It’s kinda uncomfortable, but it’s a familiar habit. Breath in, breath out. Maybe let the smoke linger in his lungs a moment and watch it spiral into the air after. 

He lets his head thunk back against the wall behind him, closes his eyes and grinds it back for good measure.

He’s tired. 

He’s tired and he’s only getting older. What the hell is he doing? 

He knows he’s generally fucking useless, but there’s gotta be something. Something to work towards or look forward to. Anything. He doesn’t have any plans, no long term goals that he hasn’t already reached. He got out. Out from that piece of shit town, out from under his piece a shit dad. He’d died of a heart attack, but it still counted dammit. 

He moved and then he moved on. Worked a crap job to save up enough to go to a crap college and get his mechanics. A little bit of luck landed him a job at Dale’s and a whole lotta luck got him everything else. A truck. Friends. Fuck, he bought a house. He’s got food in his fridge and a warm, dry place to sleep at night without having to worry about getting the shit beat out of him ever again. 

What’s wrong with him? 

Why can’t he just be happy? Not just in the little fleeting moments either. When he does a good job and Dale pats him on the shoulder. Every time Judith smiles when he comes over to visit. When Carol drops by to check on him, even though neither of them points it out. Rick, his first real friend. A guy who genuinely wants to spend time with him because he enjoys it. The nearest thing he’s ever had to a brother. 

Why can’t he have that kind of happiness all the time? How come there's a little bit of joy surrounded by so much sadness? Loneliness? 

The hells wrong with him?

There’s the creak of the door opening and sound spilling out into the open air from inside. The sound of heavy boots and the squeak of the boards beneath them. 

“What’cha doin’ out here Señorita? Catching a lil’ moonlight, huh?”

It’s the unique rasp of the voice that he recognizes, even as his eyes fall open to see. 

He’s got his forearms braced on the railing, hands folded together and one foot hooked behind the ankle of the other. His arms are a nice solid build without being ridiculous and they flex as he settles. The vest he’s wearing has a set of wings down the back. At one point they were probably white. It’s frayed a little around the edges but there’s something about that, that feels right. Like it’s better this way, rather than stark white and perfect. That it’s been owned and wore, used. 

“Had to get some air, it’s packed tonight.” She shrugs and smiles as she tips up her bottle for a swig.

He takes another drawl and lets his eyes slide shut again. 

The guy hums in what he assumes is agreement and it’s quiet for a moment. Then there’s a rustle and the flick of a lighter followed by the whoosh of exhaled breath.

“So, Wha’s a fine thing like you doin’ in a place like this?”

There’s a snort from the girl, and for a minute he thinks he’s talking to her. 

“Don’t mind him, Merle’s a notorious flirt.”

Wait.

His eyes snap open and he’s lucky he drops the damn cigarette instead of inhaling it. 

They’re both looking at him.

She’s smirking and rolling her eyes, earrings catching in the dim light by the door. And the man, Merle, he’s smiling.

There’s a cigarette of his own pinched between two fingers of one hand, the other hanging lax over the edge of the wooden rail. He’s got a face that looks like it’s built to be intimidating, but lights up with his crooked smile and mischievous, striking blue eyes. He’s a bit scruffy. Nowhere near a beard but needing a shave all the same. He’s older. Not old, but old enough. Probably in his forties. 

“S’mistake, ya don’t want me.” It’s barely a whisper between his lips, and part of him wishes he could hold it back and just not respond. To just never utter the words he’s sickeningly sure are branded onto this man. 

He sees the girls eyes go wide and her mouth pop open in a little ‘oh’ and he might hear her say something like “Holy shit, Merle” but he’s not really too sure. He’s too busy watching this guy's face go lax in shock.

He’s not ready for this. He’s never gonna be ready for this. Not that people wake up and go ‘yeah, today’s the day!’ The panics already setting in. Fear, real fear that turns his stomach inside out. He thinks he’s shaking, chances are he is. Part of him wants to run, the other part wishes he had a sidearm so he could blow his brains out and never, ever, have to deal with this. It would be over and he’d leave this poor guy with the trauma of watching his ‘other half’ opt out, but it’s better than the alternative. 

He’s such a failure. 

He so fucking inadequate, a god-dammed waste of space. What’s he got to offer this guy? A broken battered body and a fractured soul? He’s not rich or famous to make up for it. Doesn’t really have a single damn thing to make up for it at all. 

What, a truck that sure, works just fine cause he keeps it running, but that’s almost as old as he is? 

Half a bike in a shed still missing most of its parts? 

A little house in the woods, that’s more a glorified cabin then anything?

Shit, he still has to fix that section of the back patio. He meant to do it last weekend but he’d gone hunting instead and then he’d spent most of Sunday at Ricks and they’d taken Judith to the park, and why hadn’t he picked at it over the week? Done a little bit here and there, cut out the rotting wood one evening and replaced it the next? Hell, he could have spread it out over three or four evenings if he’d wanted and painted it on the next. 

Fuck, he hasn’t bought the paint yet either, and is he gonna have to repaint the whole thing or can he find a match to the old colour? He likes the old colour, it’s nice. Him and Carol picked it out when he first moved in. 

God he feels like he’s drowning. 

He can’t fucking breathe. 

“Easy, easy. S’all right, just take a nice deep breath for me.”

He can’t. He can’t. He can’t.

“Ya’ can, is real simple, just breathe in and then breathe out.”

“Merle!”

“What?! The fuck ya’ want me to say? You got an idea as to wha’ the fuck ‘m supposed to do, ‘m all ears!”

It hurts.

“Wha’ hurts? Jesus Christ, you havin’ a heart attack?!”

“I’m getting Abraham.”

“Don’t ya’ fuckin’ leave me! I don’t know wha’ I’m doin’!”

Something’s holding him up but he’s damn well going down. Everything’s fuzzy and spinning and he. Can’t. Breathe. 

“Shit. No, stop that. Son of a bitch, ROSITA!?” 

His knees hit the wooden deck but it doesn’t register. There’s arms struggling to try and hold him up and eventually concede to laying him flat on his back. He feels like he’s gonna throw up and he’s cold and sweaty and shaking like a leaf. There’s a crushing weight bearing down on him, ribs aching with every stuttering breath. Everything’s distorted, a wishy wash of grey and streaks of lights. 

“I don’t know wha’ to do. I don’t know-.”


	2. Part 2

——

Waking up is a disorienting affair. It’s bright lights and beeping noises and shuffling feet. He’s in a bed with a blanket and there’s a blue curtain and Rick. 

Rick who looks tired and concerned in nothing but soft flannel pants and an old academy sweatshirt. 

“Hey, how you feelin’?” He sounds as tired as he looks. He shuffles over to the plastic chair by his bed and flops down into it with a long drawn out sigh.

It’s as he’s turning his head to follow Rick's movement that he notices the oxygen mask pinching at his face. It’s fogged with his quiet breathing and doesn’t take much to pull it up, over, and off. He lets it tumble off to hang at the side of the bed as Rick watches.

He hopes he didn’t crash the truck.

“Yeah that about sums it up I guess.”

Fuck, he liked that truck.

Rick yawns and leans forward to rest his elbows on his legs and run a hand through his hair. “You remember anything?”

“Was at yer’ place, damn party.”

Rick smirks and nods.

“Left, headin’ home.” Except he hadn’t gone home, he’d gone to Smokes. “Didn’t, went for a drink instead.”

“Yeah, a whole lotta bikes and leather. Didn’t really see that as your kinda joint, but I’m not surprised by it either if I’m honest.” Ricks got that calculating look on his face, the one he gets when he slips into an officer of the law just a smidge. “You remember anything after that?”

Yeah. He was drinking and it was loud and a little crowded and-. 

Oh.

“Yeah. It’s alright. You scared the hell outta a few people though.” 

“The fuck happened? Why you here?”

He knows what happened. Can fill in the blanks between then and now. Knows why Ricks here, he’s written down as his next of kin in his file at the hospital. Closest he’s ever been to having a real family.

“Well, first and foremost I didn’t know anything about your mark. I know some people like to keep theirs private, especially if they’ve lost it so I didn’t want to bring it up, just in case.” Rick lifts and drops a shoulder in a shrug and glances around the room. He’d know all about lost marks. “I thought you’d gone home. So when I got a call at damn near one thirty on a Saturday morning about you getting brought in here after passing out in a bar, I was a tad bit concerned.”

“Where’s the kids?”

“Home. I woke Carl up, gave him a quick rundown of what was going on. He’ll be fine for a little while with Jude on his own. He needs anything he’s got my cell number, Carols and the Greene’s house number. All good.”

Ain’t nothing good about this. He’s gone and dragged Rick outta bed in the middle of the night, hauled Carl out of bed too and left him home alone with his sister. Probably scared the hell out of him after everything that happened to his momma last time she was here. Probably scared the hell out of Rick too. All for his pathetic ass that can’t handle finding his soulmate.

His soulmate. 

It’s a he. His soulmates a man.

Where is he? Is he here? Did he leave, or was he even here to begin with? 

“Hey, it’s ok. They’re outside, in the waiting room.”

He hadn’t realized he’d been glancing around the room until Rick's hand landed on his own.

“Weren’t sure if you’d want ‘em in here. You need this for a minute?” Ricks holding up the mask, oxygen still distantly hissing through the tubing. 

“Nah.” It's half choked and he hopes Rick doesn’t call him out on it.

He doesn’t. Just hangs the mask somewhere behind him and the bed.

“Who’s ‘ere?”

“Ah, Rosita and Abraham, they brought you in. Abraham’s a firefighter, I’ve met him once before. He was pretty sure he knew what was happening, but better safe than sorry. You were out longer than they expected.”

“That it?”

Rick grins. “Why? You looking for somebody in particular?”

No. Yes. Maybe, he’s not too sure if he’s being honest. What’s he supposed to do?

“You're spacing out on me again, I gotta force that thing on you?” Ricks is still smiling but it doesn’t reach his eyes. His eyes read ‘concerned mother hen, I’m gonna proceed to mother hen now’. 

He’s gonna let him too. A little bit, not a lot. He’s scared Rick enough tonight, owes him the comfort of looking out for him. 

“I mean it, you good?”

“Yeah. No, I don’t know.” He really doesn’t. He starting to go numb, which he guesses is better then freaking the fuck out entirely. “What am I supposed t’ do ‘bout all this?”

Rick shrugs again and looks over at the curtain like he can see clear through it and out into the waiting room where a bunch of strangers are waiting on him. “What do you wanna do?”

“I don’t know.” And he doesn’t, he really truly doesn’t. He’s not good enough, he knows he’s not. Who wants someone with a shit ton of baggage and childhood abuse scars? 

The worst part? 

There’s a tiny, teeny tiny part of him, that wants this. That craves it and everything it’s supposed to be. The love, the comfort, the touch that maybe, just maybe, won’t send him into a screaming panic. Kisses. Sex. He knows what feels good for him, but what’s it like with a partner? What’s it like to let them run their hands over him and not shy away? What’s it like to be kissed and held and damn well fucked? Or to fuck them? Or loved? Or be made love too? 

But it’s buried so deep, because it has to be. He can’t have that. Doesn’t deserve that, and even if he tried, he’d fuck it up. He knows he would. 

He doesn’t get to have those things. He’s never gonna get to wake up in somebody’s arms and warm kisses across his face, no matter how much he wants it. 

He doesn’t get to have that. 

“You don’t know cause you don’t know, or you don’t know cause you're scared of the answer?” Now Rick’s looking at him, and he’s always been able to see right through him. Never mattered how thick his walls were, Rick always gets it. He’s kinda like a soulmate in his own right, cause he can’t think of a life without this man in it. 

“Brother, if you want me to go out there and tell all three of them to fuck right off, I’ll do it. I will. I’ll think it’s the stupidest shit I’ve ever seen you do, but I’ll do it.”

“Nah.” No, he doesn’t want Rick to do that. Not the nice people that dragged his sorry excuse of a carcass to the hospital and then damn well stayed to make sure he was ok. 

“Alright.” Rick bows his head in a nod, fingers laced and hands hanging. “What do you want me to do?”

“I ain’t got a damn clue, Rick.” Its the truth. If that’s all he’s got right now he’ll use it.

“Well, how about I go track down a nurse and see about getting you discharged? We’ll start with that, yeah?” 

“Yeah, a’right.”

It’s as Rick gets up and slips through the curtain that he notices he’s not even wearing real shoes, just blue fucking slippers with the fluff on the inside. It almost makes him laugh. Almost.

—

Ricks gone a good ten minutes. All of which he lays there staring at the ceiling and resolutely not, thinking about what’s happened. 

The hiss of oxygen behind him has cut off. If it ran out or was set to a timer he’s not sure. There’s the beeps from the stupid heart rate thing they’ve got him hooked up to, and the constant click of the clock over on the wall. 

On the other side of his curtain there’s the scuff of boots across linoleum flooring. Can’t be Rick, he’s wearing those ridiculous slippers. Could be a nurse or another patient or something heading for another room. Eventually they shuffle just outside the thin veil of privacy the curtain provides. Must be a nurse.

Except the head that peaks in is decidedly not a nurse, but the one person he really isn’t ready to face. 

Merle pauses, his eyes seeming to run over him before trailing back to his face. He nods once when their eyes meet. If it’s in greeting or just to solidify himself into dealing with this shit show, he can’t tell. Either way, Merle’s apparently coming in. 

Merle. 

He pulls the curtain closed behind him and makes his way to the same chair Rick had occupied earlier. His vest is missing, must have left it out in the waiting room cause he’s only in his white wife beater. He leans forward and braces his forearms against his thighs, leaving his hands to hang much like he had back at the bar. 

He knows why he’s here. He’s not even truly surprised by how quick this guys come to his senses. Not all soulmates workout. Sure, most of them do, but not all. Things happen. This guys smart to walk out now rather than later. Wipe his hands clean and move on. 

At least he was nice enough to make sure he was alright. 

“Ya’ gonna’ be alright enough for me to talk?” 

Merle’s watching him, which is good cause all he has to do is nod. He doubts he could speak even if he wanted too. 

Merle nods again and when he speaks it’s mildly quieter compared to what he assumes is his natural volume of loud. “I didn’t get my mark til’ I was eighteen.” 

Eighteen. Eighteen years between them. So he did notice. 

“I thought I didn’t have one. Thought the world decided I jus’ wasn’t deserving.” Merle shrugs and drops his gaze to the floor. Head bowed forward and hands laced together. “Scared the hell out’a me when I got it. Didn’t know wha’ it meant. Didn’t understan’. Understood less when I finally learned what it said. Can hardly read as is, let alone when it’s damn well backwards in a mirror.” 

He hadn’t understood either. Didn’t learn how to read himself until he was almost five, was behind in kindergarten too when it came to all that stuff. But he could read his words by then. He always read his words. 

Merle pauses to glance around the room, one hand coming up to run over his head and rest at the back of his neck. “Look, I ain’t good with words. Sure as hell ain’t the smartest either, didn’t even graduate. I’ve done a lot of stupid shit too and I’ve damn well paid for it. Wasn’t always a good man, wasn’t honest, sure as hell didn’t make no honest money either.” Merle turns, his eyes locking with his own. “But those words have haunted me for the last thirty damn years and they're a load a bullshit.”

He lowers his own eyes to stare at the bland expanse of blanket before him. Having rejection literally printed into your skins gotta fuck with you. At least he’d had something nice. A pick-up line, but still. Fuck, he couldn’t even get that right. Couldn’t have said anything other than it’s a mistake? That this guy was wrong, and sorry I know I’m supposed to be yours but trust me, you really don’t want this mess?

There’s a brush of heat against his arm. A hand, large and calloused and far more gentle then he’d expect rests on the blanket beside him. Not holding, not wrapped around him, just the barest hint of fingertips against his flesh. 

“I’ve had a damn long time to think ‘bout this. All the ways you’d of said it. If you’d be angry, or, or disgusted or hurt or if it would just be a little mix up and no big deal.” His voice is quieter and softer in a rugged kind of way. Like he’s trying not to send him into a spiralling panic all over again. “And I don’t know the what’s or the why’s, or if somethin’s wrong, if it’s the way I said it, or if it’s just me, and if it is ya’ can tell me I’m a grown ass man, I’ll damn well take it-.”

He’s not sure when he starts crying. Silent wet trails from his burning eyes, and that pressure feeling behind his sockets and in his sinus that leaves the room water blurry. This guys not walking away. He’s not here to clear his conscience and leave. He’s here cause he’s worried, and he wants to help, and he’s trying to reach out for him and how’s he supposed to reach back? Does he even want too? How long is it gonna be before this stranger changes his mind? Realizes he’s not worth the time or the effort? How long before he fucks it all up anyways? 

“Shhhh, ‘s a’right, s’okay. Fuck, ‘m sorry.” Warm hands, gentle hands, soft touches that try to wipe his face clean.

He’s gonna ruin everything.

“M’ damn well makin’ ya cry again already.”

Why’s he such a little bitch? Why can’t he hold back these tears? How many times did he bite his tongue and not a single one fell, no matter how hard his daddy hit, no matter how much it hurt? Why can’t he hold them back now?

“Hell, I don’t know how to help ya.”

He doesn’t know how to help himself.

“What’chu need? ‘M right here.”

He doesn’t hear the swish of the curtain, doesn’t even really register Rick's voice or the nurses. Doesn’t hear when Rick asks what’s going on, Merle’s reply or the nurses calm reassurance. There’s fresh tears, warm hands, soft spoken words and then he’s drifting. 

——

They keep him overnight. 

In the morning he wakes to hushed voices. Ricks still here and now so is Carol. He must be filling her in before leaving to go home. There’s words like ‘soulmate distress’, ‘panic attacks’ and ‘anxiety’. How he has to talk to somebody before they’ll discharge him. Like he’s a flight risk. Like he’s gonna hurt himself or some shit.

The heart monitor is gone, along with a bit of his chest hair and it itches something awful. 

Rick leaves and Carol wanders over. The room is different. They must have moved him from emergency and into an actual room. Gonna cost him a fortune all cause he’s a fucking bitch. Probably on the damn psych ward. 

Carol brought tea. Not that he drinks tea really. Only ever when she makes it for him.

“Morning pookie.” She hands it over and he sits up to take it. “How are you doing?”

The travel mug is warm in his hands and the tea inside is blissfully hot. It’s sweet and earthy and soothing on his gurgling stomach. 

“Fine.” The last thing he wants is to have some shrink poking around in his head. 

Carol hums and sits on the edge of his bed. She brushes his hair out of his face and trucks it back behind his ear with graceful fingers. 

He knows she doesn’t believe him but they sit in silence and he drinks his tea. He doesn’t ask about Merle or the other two that helped him. Doesn’t ask where they are. Doesn’t ask why he isn’t here. He doesn’t need to even ask if she knows about any of it, he’s sure Ricks told her everything. Thick as thieves. 

They bring him breakfast. He’s never stayed in a hospital before. Isn’t even sure if he was born in one. For all the shit people say about hospital food, it’s not that bad. It’s bland, sure, but he’s eaten worse. 

A nurse checks in before lunch to inform them that Dr. Cloyd will be visiting shortly.

“Do you want me to stay?” 

He knows Carol would if he asked. He also knows that she’d make him talk, not by force, but by the sheer will of her mothering look. He doesn’t want to talk. He doesn’t want to deal with this. He just wants to go home and forget about rough looking older men with raspy voices and pretty blue eyes.

——

Dr. Denise Cloyd is a bigger girl with an even bigger heart. She’s a little awkward in a sweet kind of way and she keeps pushing her glasses up as they slide down her nose. She makes him feel comfortable in a weird way he normally isn’t. He talks. Not much and he doesn’t really tell her a whole lot. Gives one word answers where he can get away with it. She asks what happened and how it made him feel. If he knows why he panicked. If this kind of thing has happened before. If he’s ever hurt himself before. 

For some reason he answers that one. Which is the only question he really shouldn’t answer honestly if he wants to get out of here anytime soon, but he does. He tells her about his marks in as little words as he can manage and she listens. 

One hour turns into two. 

They discharge him. 

Carol brings him a change of clothes and he’s home before supper. He takes the little card Denise gave him with her office number and tucks it away in a drawer. 

——

Days go by and he’s back at work. Carol drops in or calls at least once a day and Ricks just as bad. He doesn’t hear anything about the people who brought him in and he doesn’t care. It’s over and he doesn’t have to worry. He can move on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For some reason A03 isn’t letting me bold or use italics, it just keeps freaking on me sooooo boring text it is


	3. Part 3

Weeks go by. 

Things are normal. He goes to work, he hunts. He visits Rick and the kids, and spends afternoons with Carol. He shops for groceries and cooks supper alone. Ends up at the Green farm for a day fixing Herschel’s old tractor. Spends his evenings watching B-list action movies on his couch that’s big enough to seat three. Takes Carl fishing just cause he can and takes little Judith to the park cause she wants an adventure too. 

If he crawls into his big empty bed at night and runs his finger tips across his mark, that’s his business. If he cries himself to sleep while trying to mutter that everything’s okay, well, it’s not like anybody will ever know.

——

Summer moves into fall. 

The trees change colour and the temperature drops. He watches Judith jump through piles of freshly raked leaves and smirks at Carl’s cry of distraught. He leaves them to their fun and interrupted chores, and steps inside. He can hear the shower going upstairs, Rick having just gotten home moments before his arrival. 

He’s working on getting a cup of coffee for himself when he hears the chime of Ricks phone, and he doesn’t even think about it when he picks it up to check. Its not the first time and it won’t be the last. Ricks always got his hands full with Judith running around and it’s not like he had anything to hide. It’s probably Carol, or it could be Maggie checking in to see if Rick and his kids are coming over for thanksgiving still.

‘How is he?’

He doesn’t recognize the number. 

It’s easy to unlock Rick's phone and open up his contacts. Maybe it’s a teacher asking about Carl? Maybe the kid is having a tough time again. He hopes not. He’s been doing so much better lately. 

Reading up through the messages it quickly becomes apparent that’s not the case. The more he reads the more his confusion grows. It's not until he reaches the top that his suspicions are confirmed. He’s been texting everyday and the call logs show they’ve spoken a few times too. He asks about him. Everyday. Ever since the hospital. Whether Rick gave him his number or the other way around, Merle’s been checking in on him. Every, fucking, day. The first text is from the very first night. 

‘He gonna be ok?’

He wants to ask Rick why he didn’t tell him but the answers staring him in the face.

‘Yeah, he’ll be alright. I think he’s going to need some time to wrap his head around this. He doesn’t let people in very easily. Give him some space, he’ll come around when he’s ready.’

He leaves Rick’s phone on the counter where he found it and when he hears the shower shut off he calls up that he’s gotta head out. If Rick questions why he’s leaving when he literally just got there not twenty minutes ago he doesn’t wait around to find out. 

——

He drives past the turn off for his road approximately nine times over the following two weeks and every time he makes it a little further down the road. He’s not sure what the hell he’s gonna do on the day he actually makes it all the way but he’ll cross that bridge when he gets to it. 

——

He’s stopped up the road. Just close enough to see Smoke’s and the patrons on the front step.

He sits and waits a while and he tells himself he doesn’t know what he’s waiting for, but he does. 

He turns around and heads back home. First thing he does is dig around in his kitchen drawer for a little business card. 

——

Thanksgiving at the Greens is a lively event. People everywhere and just as much food. The whole farm house smells like turkey and baked goods. Cinnamon and nutmeg and whatever hot drink the Green girls have concocted. He’s not sure if it’s some kind of hot chocolate or spiced tea but it smells delicious and sickly sweet either way. They say grace and eat enough to just about make themselves sick and everyone starts sharing what they're thankful for. 

Later, when Rick is distracted with a dozing Judith in his lap, he swipes his phone from his coat by the door. 

It takes him almost an hour to work up the nerve to do what he wants to do. He slips out onto the back patio and lights a cigarette as an excuse. He takes out his phone and opens his new contact. He ends up lighting a second cigarette before he can finally hit the send button and he’s shoving it back into his pocket without waiting for a response.

On his way home he’ll beat himself up over it and question why he hadn’t at least said who it was from, or literally anything other than just ‘Thank you’.

His phone dings as he’s walking in the door and his shattered little heart should calm the fuck down before it explodes. 

——

Sitting in Dr. Cloyds office makes him anxious but he signed up for this and he’s made it through the first appointment, he’ll make it through the second. And the third, and however many more he needs after. 

“Sorry for the wait Daryl, it’s been a bit hectic today!”

——

‘Hey’

‘Hi’

——

It’s only getting colder and winter won’t be long coming. There’ll be snow and candy canes. He helps Rick pick out their Christmas tree at one of the lots and when Judith just won’t take no for an answer he ends up with a smaller one for himself. He doesn’t have any decorations for it but Carol's quick to fix that along with a bundle of lights for his front step that’s more trouble than it’s worth. 

He drags her out Christmas shopping with him more out of necessity than anything. How’s he supposed to know what to get people?

He won’t admit he has a sweet tooth but he does go home with a can of powdered hot chocolate and a bag of jumbo marshmallows.

If he sits on his couch and drinks a big ass mug of it and watches the lights twinkle on his tree by the window, well nobody’s here to comment on it. 

‘Damn cold tonight’

‘Yeah. Snow tomorrow.’

——

He gets Denise a little card with reindeer on it and a gift card for coffee. He doesn’t have another appointment until January so he drops it off at the check in desk.

He’s just getting back into town after driving out to the farm. What was supposed to be a quick drop off of gifts turned into a not so short visit. 

Carol already has her gift tucked up under her tree and Rick and the kids are the last to go before heading home.

He shouldn’t have left it to the day before Christmas Eve but it’s too late now. 

——

‘Merry Christmas’

‘merry christmas.’

——

There’s a New Years party out at the farm. No big surprise, it’s the best place to house so many people and they can set up the fire works out in the field. 

There’s a party at just about ever bar in town too, Smoke’s included. 

He could just go straight over to Hershel’s. Help them set things up before the crowd really shows up. 

But he doesn’t.

He slows at the top of the road and he can see him from here. There’s a crowd out on the front porch, drinks and cigarettes in hand and coats pulled tight around them. He can imagine the beat of the music inside and the cheer of the crowd.

He pulls off onto the side of the road, as the parking lots full and pulls out his phone.

‘Hey’

He watches Merle stick his own smoke between his teeth and balance a beer bottle on the wooden railing as he digs for his own.

‘Hi’

Merle smirks as the smoke curls up around his head. 

‘You busy?’

‘Nah’

He rolls down his window and gives a sharp whistle. It gains the attention of more than one person, but Merle sees him and that’s what matters. He smiles wide and drops his smoke to the ground. It’s crushed under his heel and he’s snagging his drink and walking over. 

His stomach rolls and his hands shake a little but he remembers what he’s learned and breathes. “Hey.”

“Hi.” Merle’s smile is infectious and he looks ridiculous in an old winter jacket. 

——

New Years is well, a party. The Greens don’t go small on any celebration. While Hershel doesn’t drink himself, there’s plenty of booze available. The only celebration they house where it’s available at all. They don’t skimp on fireworks either. They set off a small batch for the younger kids in attendance before they get shipped off to bed, but the real show comes at midnight. 

The countdown is the best part. Surrounded by friends and family as they cheer and the first explosion lights up the night.

‘Happy New Years’

‘Cheers’

‘You busy?’

‘Nah’

——

He has zero intentions of bringing him home with him, but it doesn’t mean he can’t make sure he has a safe ride for the night. It’s the first New Years that he hasn’t really drank anything. He had a few earlier in the evening, and it’s not like he planned on offering Merle a ride home but here they are.

Merle’s drunk flushed and flirty in his passenger seat. He still manages to give him half decent directions to his apartment just inside town.

If he leaves the truck to idle in Merle’s driveway longer than he should, he can blame it on the fact that Merle’s still fairly tipsy and needs a hand getting his keys. Not that he’s lip-locked on his front step. 

It doesn’t bother him as much as he thought it would.

——

‘You ok?’

‘Yea’

‘Ya sure?’

‘No.’

It bothers him more than he thought it did.

——

Denise is attentive and supportive and she gives the best advice and guidance he could ask for. 

It’s not enough. Part of him knew it wouldn’t be enough. 

He’s gonna ruin everything.

——

‘Hey’

‘Hey’

‘You ok?’

‘Daryl?’


	4. Part 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for following along! It’s been fun getting back into writing/posting. 
> 
> Hope you enjoyed!

He leaves his phone in the living room and curls up in his bed. 

What’s he supposed to say? Hey, we both knew this wasn’t gonna work out. I’m a broken man who can’t even let you kiss me? 

——

Opening his front door to Merle’s concerned face isn’t how he wants to start his morning.

“Wha’s wrong?” He doesn’t wait for Daryl to ask him in, just steps inside and closes the door behind him.

It shouldn’t bother him, but it does.

How the hell is any of this going to work if Merle walking into his house bothers him? He should be happy he’s here, should open his door and welcome him in, maybe have breakfast together. Sit down at his little kitchen table and share bashful smiles, maybe reach out and hold hands. Some kind of pansy ass shit. 

Instead he’s angry. Which is stupid. So incredibly stupid.

Merle had been drunk and he hadn’t pushed him away. Merle had kissed him and he kissed back. Hadn’t gone any further then the two of them furiously making out on Merle’s front step. He had pulled back, Merle had smiled like a dope and they said good night. Simple as that.

So why is he so torn up about it? It was good. It felt good. Merle’s lips locked with his own, nothing but the pant of stolen breath between the two of them. He’s supposed to feel good about this. Merle means something to him, and he’s both afraid of what that something is and craving it at the same time. He’s so damn broken. He’s not doing any of this right and he’s going to hurt Merle. He’s going to hurt himself too. 

He’s supposed to be getting over all this shit and instead it feels like he’s falling backwards. 

They fight. 

It twists something up inside him, something dark and disgusting and far too much like pa. He says things he doesn’t mean. Lashes out however he can to get Merle to just leave. To damn well give up on him already and it’s not fair. Not fair to Merle who’s trying so damn hard. Who holds himself back until he can’t anymore and the two of them are screaming. It’s terrifying and he’s sorry but he’s also sick to his stomach. This is wrong, it’s all wrong and it’s his fault. 

His fault for being broken.

His fault for not getting better.

His fault. His fault. His fault.

Merle leaves and his heart leaves with him.

——

‘I’m sorry’

‘Not your fault’

‘Ain’t yours either’

——

Sitting outside Dr. Cloyds office door is as uncomfortable as it ever is. Even more so with Merle slumped in the seat beside him. There’s a woman and her daughter sitting in the seats across from them and he can only imagine what they must look like to them.

One in a leather biker vest, arms crossed, and him a fidgety, twitchy mess, still grease stained from work. The mother across from them doesn’t look too keen and her daughter beside her looks, well, kinda like him. She keeps shifting and squirming in her seat, looking more and more uncomfortable by the minute. Mommy dearest sits clicking away on her phone, oblivious to her daughters discomfort.

Merle seems to notice it too, if the way he’s rolling his eyes is any indication. 

The door around the corner clicks open and Dr. Cloyd is calling out for him. He gets up and Merle follows. 

The room is the same as before. Walls a neutral cream colour, a bookshelf on one side, her desk, a sofa with a little coffee table in front of it. She’s got plants scattered throughout the room, and at least three boxes of tissues. Although he can’t see it from here, he knows there’s a mini fridge behind her desk that holds both her lunch and several bottles of both orange and apple juice. Says it helps after a good cry.

The sofa is firm but comfy. Small too, with both him and Merle perched on it. 

“Afternoon Daryl, and you must be Merle. It’s nice to meet you.”

——

Merle doesn’t always go with him. They break it up to every second or third appointment. It works. Or at least it helps. They work through things and Merle even books a few separate for himself. He’s trying so hard to make this work, to help him, and the least he can do in return is try his best as well.

——

Winter slowly starts to break into a tentative spring, and with it comes Merle’s birthday. They don’t do anything big like a party, but they do go out for supper with a group of friends. Daryl gets to properly meet Abraham and Rosita, and Merle gets introduced to Carol. He’s already met Rick and they get along just fine for the most part. 

The food is good and everyone seems to enjoy themselves. Merle gets a handful of gifts. A gift card for alcohol from Abe, a new leather jacket from Rosita, Rick gets him a pair of slippers in a style that looks oddly familiar along with a gift card for a little coffee shop, and Carol gives him a quilt, hand made. It’s got a camouflage print around the edge with a big panel in the middle depicting a mule deer in front of a mountain. It’s heavy and no doubt it’ll be warm. 

Merle thanks each of them and their all packing up and heading home. 

He helps Merle carry out and load up his gifts along with their takeout containers into his truck before sliding into the front seat. He takes them both back to his place instead of bringing Merle home. They bring in the food and Merle snags his new blanket and his slippers from the back seat. 

They end up curled underneath that blanket together, Merle’s slippered feet tucked in against his own, some western movie playing out on the tv.

If he wakes the next morning on that same couch, under that same blanket, wrapped up in Merle’s arms, well, it’s just the two of them. Who’s gonna see?

——

Things progress, slowly, so very damn slowly. 

He slowly gets used to the casual touches. 

A hand on his arm or shoulder or even his lower back. Fingertips brushing his hair back out of his eyes. Arms wrapping around him and holding him close. Lips brushing against his forehead, maybe his cheek. 

He slowly gets used to the kisses. 

Merle nuzzling in against his throat. A kiss there, near his collar bone. Lips against his own. Bolder, and heated. A tongue slipping in to tangle with his own. Sucking at his lips as fingers dig into his hip. Laid out, practically on top of Merle in his little apartment just inside town. 

He slowly gets braver.

Pulling Merle closer, pulling him in. Hands sneaking up under his shirt just to feel. His heart beat, his lung filling, breath stuttering against his palm. Coarse chest hair and peaked nipples. Scars. Scars across his back so god damn similar to his own. 

They slowly learn.

About each other. About their past, that wasn’t shared but could have been for how similar they are. About His mother. About Merle’s. The fathers they wish they never had. He learns that Merle drinks his coffee black and strawberry shortcake is his favourite. That he’s afraid of heights, and cats make his eyes itch. That Merle has nightmares just the same as him. That it’s not all that uncommon for one of them to wake up panting and teary eyed in the middle of the night. 

How one night spent together on his couch slowly turns to every other night in his bed. 

——

“You sure?”

“Yeah, yeah I’m sure. I’m good.”

“Hmmmm.” Merle kisses at his throat soft and sweet.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading and stay safe!


End file.
